The Outsiders: Rae's Story
by lizabeth143
Summary: Thrust into the middle of a long ranging war between greasers and Socs, two opposite sides of town, Rae, a greaser, wants nothing more than to put an end to it. But during the process, she only makes things worse when she meets Cam, a Soc. Will love conquer all? Or, will Rae and Cam be forced to part ways and go back to the life they know best? ***LOOSELY based.***
1. Greaser

I could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance behind me, loud and piercing, screeching in the cold, night air. It was almost as loud as the heavy thuds of my heart. Almost.

My feet ached. Real bad. I felt like if I ran a step more, my toes would fall off. I would have stopped if it wasn't for the five police cars chasing after me. And why were they chasing me? Ha. You wouldn't want to know. The same stunts all people like me get pulled in for. Robbing local grocery stores and shops, getting caught with a knife or two in hand, slashing a few tires, and being seen in the most violent of fights and rumbles.

(The last one happened a lot. Like everyday a lot.)

And me being seen running down the streets with the cops chasing after me, well let's just say that wasn't a rare sight. And everyone knew it. Like the whole town.

(And the next two towns over.)

But anyways, it's not like I'm the worst this town has seen. I'm actually pretty tame compared to other greasers. The reason why they know me so well is because I get caught the most. I've been hauled in the police station more times than I walk through my front door.

Nobody understands that, though. They all say I'm the smartest and slickest out of all the greasers. The ones that know me, like really know me, blame it on my guilty conscience. They all think that halfway through I start to feel ashamed, and am just begging to get caught. They say I purposely screw up sometime in the process.

"It's funny; you wouldn't think a greaser even has a conscience." They joke.

That's what I am; a greaser. It's not going to be in a dictionary or something if you try to look it up, but if you ask us what it means we would say cunning, bold, adventurous, brave, daring, and fearless. If you ask the older folks around here though, they'd say ruthless, awful, up to no good, crazy troublemakers. And if you ask the group of kids on the other side of town, the ones known as Socs, well they'd say a bunch of white trash, greasy-haired kids who could use a good bath.

In case you don't know what I mean by Soc, here's a definition for you; Socs are the snobby, upper class, rich kids in town who drive mustangs and madras and whose idea of fun is beating up greasers like me.

The feeling of free falling, weightless in the air, brought me crashing back down to reality. Literally. I slammed into the cold, hard, cracked pavement, face first. I sighed. Damn bottle. After throwing a few curse words at the lifeless, dead piece of glass, I got up, dusted my knees off, and examined my injuries. I had a few cuts and scrapes that stung something awful, replacing some old ones, but not too bad. I've been in worst shape. My dad…

I didn't get to finish my sentence. Already police cars were swarming in the deserted lot I was in. Well, shoot. That ought to be a new record. Policemen stepped out of the cars that took up the whole space of the lot. All this for stealing a couple of beers and smokes? Wow. Boy, do I feel special.

I raised my hands up to my face, trying to block the blinding lights of the cars.

"Hey, you mind shutting off those lights? They're kinda' bright!"

Okay, biggest mistake ever. That just pissed them off even more. But you can't blame me. A couple of beers can make someone a little drunk. Plus, I'm known for my smart mouth.

"Put your hands on the ground, now!" One of the guys up front yelled.

Instead of doing what I knew would make them happy, I drew out a small, silver hunting knife I 'borrowed' from the local hunting store.

It wasn't all that great, but it was what I got and we greasers learn to love the things you got, no matter how awful it seems. After all, our favorite saying is, 'It could be worse.' And yeah, it could be worse. I may live in a broken-down one story house with a drunken, abusive dad who brought his problems home to me and kicked me out of the house more times than necessary, but I could have it worse. I could be living on the streets like most of us greasers do; like a lot of us greasers are gonna end up like.

Catching a glimpse of the knife in my hands, the cop drew his gun.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Rae! Drop the knife and put your hands on the ground. Now!"

Yeah, the police kind of know my name. I guess they got it memorized from yelling it so much. I flashed them another one of my wicked smiles, twirling the silver knife in my hand.

"You want it? Well then come and get it." I called out.

I stuck my arm out, the knife resting in the palm of my hand. The cop watched me suspiciously, uncertainty evident in his eyes.

"Well?" I urged, thrusting my hand out a little more.

The cop walked forwards slowly and cautiously, his footsteps careful, practiced. The other cops eyed the scene with wary expressions on their faces.

"Come on, I'm not going to stab you or anything." I chided.

The cop finally approached my awaiting hand. Gun still raised, he reached out a shaky hand.

"For the love of god, just take the damn thing!"

This seemed to get his attention. Finally realizing I wasn't pulling any tricks, he yanked the knife out of my hands and threw it behind him. He then lowered his gun and spun my body around, pinning it to the road.

See this is one of the many reasons why I hate cops. You can't trust them. Right when you try to act nice and do things peacefully, they turn on you and you end up with your face smashed up against the ground. Go figures.


	2. So Much More

I felt the cool, metal handcuffs biting into my skin.

"Golly, ouch. Ease up on the handcuffs, Mr."

He ignored my very polite request and instead pushed me into the back of one of the cars. He shut the door with so much force I was sure it would fall off.

I sighed and tried to make myself more comfortable (which is a very hard thing to do when you're stuck in the tiny back of a cop car).

"Hey, ya' got a smoke?" I asked one of the two policemen in the car as we pulled out of the parking lot and made our way to the police station.

The guy in the passenger seat just shook his head and murmured, "A young girl like you shouldn't be smoking, Rae."

"Young," I scoffed. "I ain't young. I'm sixteen now, old enough to drive."

"Yeah, well you won't be driving soon if you keep throwing stunts like these all the time, Araeleigh."

I sighed. I hated when people called me by my real name. It's so not… tough. Not… me.

Only my best friend Ryder is allowed to call me that. We're so close people mistake us as brother and sister. Ryder is the only person I can really talk to about disgusting boys, the latest fights I've been in, the horrible lunch I had in juvenile the other day, and just, life. He doesn't judge. And I love him for that. He has dark-brown, almost black hair that is swept up neatly with a comb in a sort of messy way, dark-tanned skin, and intimidating black eyes, the color of a bottomless pit. He has a nice build, very lean and muscular, and very sharp, defined facial features. He's all hard, rough angles. Just looking at him screams total bad boy.

All the girls giggle and whisper behind his back about how hot he his, mouths wide open when he walks by. There's always a big group of girls surrounding him in a circle at the auto-shop where he works. They always ask him stupid questions about working out and if he has a girlfriend, which he doesn't by the way.

(Not that I care.)

He must be really oblivious to the fact that the entire girl population is crushing on him, or really just doesn't care.

He seems real tough on the outside, the total boy trouble you don't want to bring home to introduce to your family, like somebody you wouldn't want to get in a fight with, or fall in love with for that matter, but he's real sweet on the inside. All of us greasers look up to him; respect him. I know I do. I don't know where I'd be in life if I didn't have him. My life without him would be torturous.

A screeching halt at the stop-light brought me whirling back to the present.

"Huh?" I asked.

"I said, this is your last warning, we're bringing you to the sheriff so he can deal directly with you and the problems you've been causing us and the residents of this town." clearly annoyed now by my lack of politeness.

The kinder, more sensitive cop that's known me since I was just a baby said, "This has got to stop, Rae. You can't keep living life like this, dangling on the edge every second. I know you. You're a smart, sweet girl. You got too much life ahead of you for you to just go out and waste it by something as stupid as all this."

"Well there's nothing to look forward to, now is there?" I mumbled under my breath.

It was true. What did I have to look forward to? What did any of us greasers have to look forward to except a smoke at the end of the day?

I shook my head and stared out of the tiny window. I looked past the cracked streets, past the worn-down houses, past the alley in which a group of Socs and greasers each held knives to each other's throats, and into the vast, pitch-black sky. The only light it held was from the brightness of the many shining stars splattered onto the sky like paint on a canvas.

_What was it like?_ I wondered.

To live in a place where greasers and Socs didn't exist? Where people were just… people? I would never know what that felt like. Never experience a world without gangs, guns, fights, violence. I would always remain stuck here.

I don't have enough money to escape, or go to college. And I've always wanted to go to college. I'm good enough. Smart, I mean. Top in my class.

My teachers don't believe me, though. They don't get how someone as noisy, talkative, disruptive, and well, a greaser, could be that smart. None of the student body does; especially the Socs. They all think I cheat or threaten kids to do it for me.

But I'm not like that. I'm not like many greasers. Ryder tells me that a lot.

I smile at the thought.

"You're not like any of us," he tells me. "You're so much more."

I used to think it was an insult, but now I understand. He thinks I'm actually going to go more places in life, do more things; like college, a nice, smart job, raise a family. But I don't see myself turning into ordinary folk. I want to be different, outrageous, rebellious, young forever, without a care in the world.

I'm a lot like Ryder in that way; both wanting to be wild, free, every day a new adventure, never wanting to grow old.

I like who I am right now, at this moment; a greaser, sitting in the back of a little, black, shiny police car, the sound of its siren as familiar as my own pounding heartbeat.


	3. Home

I was blinded by the bright light of the police station as I walked through the doors. I breathed in the clean, fresh air and sighed. Ahh, I missed this place. It's been almost six hours since I've stepped foot here.

(That was a joke, calm down.)

I really did miss it, though. The police station is like a second home to me. Now that I think of it, I probably spend more time here than I do at my real home. But to be fair, I try to avoid home as much as possible. I actually look forward to going to school so I have an excuse to get out of the house.

Don't ask questions.

The two policemen, who arrested my sorry-ass, stepped behind me and roughly grabbed me by the arms, hauling me towards the back of the station, towards the sheriff's office.

"Get your hands off me!" I griped at them.

They gave me a shocked look.

"Please," I grumbled.

I was so not in the mood to deal with their bad cop, good cop that they pulled on every greaser who came in here.

They roughly continued to push me down the hall and around the corner leading to another dim, depressing hallway, paint all gray and faded.

"I know the way!" I turned back and hollered.

Without their help, I walked towards the matching gray door at the end of the hall, and let myself in.

"You can't do that!" One of the cops shouted.

"At least knock!" said the other.

"Yeah, yeah," kicking the door shut behind me, blocking out their voices, still bickering about my lack of concern for the sheriff.

I spun around and looked the sheriff dead in the eye. Well, here goes nothing.


	4. Where We're Standing

The sheriff was the definition of the stereotypical cop.

He had more blonde hair on his mustache than he did on the top of his head, bald and shiny from sweat, wrinkles buried underneath tiresome eyes, and was a few pounds over chunky. You could tell that the donuts box lying on top of files and files of paperwork was the cause of those extra pounds. His dark blue uniform was covered in jelly stains and perspiration, a shiny gold badge pinned to his front pocket.

I looked around the tiny, hot office. The walls were a yellow shade of white, police news scattered all over, tape causing the old paint to peel. The room only held several pieces of furniture; his desk and matching chair, another chair, this one plastic, filing cabinets, and a dark wooden bookshelf. Manila folders spilled from the cabinets, their loose papers crowding his desk. His bookshelf was filled with more cheesy family photos than actual books.

I doubt he actually read, though. The cops in this town are pretty dim-headed.

I focused my eyes back on the cop.

He just stared at me.

I stared back.

He sighed and cocked his head.

I did the same.

He propped his feet up on the ancient wooden table, and raised his eyebrows, daring me to challenge him.

I plopped down into the chair opposite of him, the coffee-stained desk between us, sank back in my very uncomfortable plastic chair, and let my legs fall noisily onto the table, all without breaking eye contact.

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows, a smug smirk on my face.

"Nice badge," I commented.

Mr. Sheriff just narrowed his eyes and sighed.

"Look, Araeleigh,"

"Rae," I cut him off.

_You don't know me. _

Another sigh, "Rae, I'm tired, my officers are tired, this whole run-down town is tired. Aren't you? Aren't any of you greas- kids- tired?"

"If you were about to say greasers then say it. I'm a greaser; all of my friends are greasers. Half of this town is filled with greasers. But us greasers," I spit the word at him, trying to lose the vile caught in my throat.

"We aren't the only ones in this goddamn town who break your little rules. We aren't the only ones who cause problems around here. Those Socs,"

"Socs? Are you referring to my daughter, then?"

He seemed angry now.

"What?"

"My daughter- we- live on that side of town." He said motioning to the window.

"Of course, I should have known all of you cops were Socs! That's why all you ever do is arrest us, not them! They're the good ones right? Am I right? That's what all y'all think! Well, I got news for you. You're wrong. All of you are."

_You are all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. _

"My daughter is no troublemaker."

He pointed one shaking finger to the only picture on his desk.

I knew that girl.

Blonde, captain of the Victory Vipers cheerleading team, skimpy pink outfits, perfect white teeth, bright red lipstick, eyes smeared with black mascara. All smiles. Even while she watched my kid brother, Shay, get jumped by a carload of the football team, all Socs.

I can still hear the screams and cries as his face was smashed into the pavement. Still see the blood…

He wouldn't look anyone in the eye after that, not even me.

I focused back on the sheriff. His face was red and blotchy from anger.

"She stood there laughing while her friends beat up my brother."

"Well, he probably deserved it."

"He's only eight."

Shock registered in the sheriff's eyes, but quickly covered himself.

"I'll look into that."

_No you won't._

"What are my charges?"

I was trying to get this over with. I hated this cop. I hated this place. I no longer felt welcome through these doors, no longer comfortable. This place did not feel like home anymore. I wanted out. I wanted to escape, to flee. I wanted to just turn into a bird and fly away…

"Two weeks of volunteering after school and helping with the town cleanup."

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, _"Or will that interfere with your detention?"_

"I have work."

He seemed surprised.

_Yes, I work. All of us greasers do you son of a bi- _

"I'm sure you can get excused for a couple of weeks."

"One: I'll get fired. Two: If by any chance I don't get fired I still wouldn't make the money I need."

He laughed.

"Oh you actually pay for the beer, drugs, and smokes? Didn't you get caught today robbing a liquor and smoke store? What, forgot your wallet at home?"

I was steaming.

_Wish I still had my knife..._

"I need the money to put food on the table. Sorry I don't have a rich daddy to do it for me."

"I'm sure your dad is more than capable of doing so."

"You don't know my dad."

_Let's keep it that way. _

"Why? What's wrong?"

He didn't even try to act sincere.

"That's personal."

He held his hands up in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay. And Rae, this is your last warning. One more law broken and instead of getting sent here, you'll be sent to the court. Then after, county prison."

The only reason I didn't have to spend the night here is because this place isn't really a prison. We only have three jail cells. That's why us greasers never really are afraid of getting hauled in by the cops.

"Right, I understand," my voice strained.

I couldn't get caught again. I wouldn't. Jamie would be alone… with him. I couldn't leave him; I wouldn't.

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

I got up and headed to the door, my back cramping from the hard chair. I paused, kicking open the door.

Mr. Sheriff looked up from his paperwork.

"I understand that not all Socs are bad, but not all us greasers are bad, too."

We can be good… We can.

He just showed a sad smile.

"Look where we're standing, Rae."

I burst through the door before he could witness any tears fall.


End file.
